


Like a Candle

by Ivsovi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gen, In the Veil, uxoricide - partner killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivsovi/pseuds/Ivsovi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is something you have to do.  Her death should rest on your shoulders, no one else's.  Still, you are hers.  No matter what happens that will never change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Candle

She kills.

You can’t deny that it was all her fault.  She is responsible for their deaths.  Every single person that Jack Noir killed, Vriska was responsible for.  She created the monster; she should pay for its sins.  That’s what the trolls decided, and you, the humans, let them.  She was a troll; she should be tried by trolls.  That’s what you tell yourself.  You don’t want her to die, but here you stand.  You are the justice, the peace, the resolution for all of those who have died; your dad, Rose’s mom, Bro, _Jade,_ Terezi, Eridan, Karkat –too many trolls to name.

Only six of you are left; three of us, and three of them.  You, Rose, and Dave.  Aradia, Sollux, and Gamzee.  And Vriska.

They passed judgment on her.

You fulfill their ruling.

Your footsteps echo through the empty halls as you make your way to the holding cells.  The door slides open with a screech, steel against steel, and you step into the cool darkness of the observation deck.  The wall to the left of you is glass.  You can see her.

She sings.

Her mouth drops open to shape vowels, lips stretched out, and jaw spread so far it trembles.  The mourning song.  Or maybe morning.  They both mean ‘the end’ to them.  Her voice is thin and wobbly at best, but you love it.  You love her.

The force of her words sends her swaying like a sapling in a gale.  Tremors rock her entire being.  You watch the shudders run from the tip of her skull down through her chest, through her arms, through to her toes.  She shakes her head, brutally, like an animal gone feral, and the tremors disappear.  Her lips curl back from her fangs.  So full of anger, so full of fury, so _helpless._ And she knows it.  She can do nothing to save herself.

She pitches forward onto the floor and grips her knees so tightly her knuckles turn white.  The posture isn’t defensive, it isn’t for protection, it is an open declaration of rage and yet her mouth still moves.  The words are forced from between clenched teeth, but she still speaks them.  You can’t hear her.  The glass and metal and distance from her block out all sound.  The silence is complete.

She cries.

More accurately, she screams.  Tears pool in her eyes, but she fights them, she refuses to shed one single tear and throws her head back to prevent them from falling.  She is still singing, an awful noise, an outpouring of pain.  The song hurts her now, not a thing of beauty, but an ugly thing.  The tendons in her neck stand in sharp relief against her gray skin.  Pain and torment are etched into her face.   Her blunted claws scratch mindlessly against the steel floor.  Suddenly, the action becomes violent.

She fights.

Fists clenched, she pounds the walls, the floor, the window, her self.  She kicks and punches and bites and scratches and bleeds.  She bleeds blue, cerulean, oceans in the color of her blood.  The room receives her color, takes it graciously, consumes it, until there is none left.

She shouts.

She calms for a moment.  Her chest heaves, and her shirt slips off of her shoulder.  Blood runs from her wounds, and leaves rivulets on her gray skin as it runs down to the collar of her tattered shirt.  The blue blossoms in slow motion on the pale white cotton.  It used to flatter her so well; it was elegant and full of lace and it made her look more like a good fairy, instead of the horror she truly is.  She loved that damn shirt, but never would admit to it.  She would never admit to loving anything.

She turns to face the window behind which you stand.  She calls for you to come and fight her.  She begs you to look at her.  When you do not arrive, she rages again.  Profanity drips from her mouth, cursing you, cursing the people she once called friend, the people she either killed herself or condemned to die at the hands of a much worse adversary.  You can’t hear them, but you know the shape of those words.  You’ve had them thrown at you many times.  You stand fast, and never allow yourself to waver.  You will weather this storm, and in the end all will be right.  Terezi would say that justice was served.  Only Terezi is dead and can’t say anything now.

The door behind you swings open.  Two people move into the room and stand on each side of you.  The one on the left places her hand on your shoulder.  She tells you, “It’s what has to be done.”  You nod, slowly.  One press of the innocuous little button and it will all be over.  Your right hand reaches out and skims the control panel.  Your fingertips gently caress the button.  It is soft, smooth, cool to your touch.  One push spells out the end for the girl in the room below.  You take a deep breath and close your eyes.  _What if this is a mistake?  How can you kill her?_

The gentle pressure of hands on your back anchors you.  You look back into sunglass covered eyes and the owner nods.  He squeezes your shoulder and turns his head to look at the room.  She is leaning up against the window, facing you.  She is braced up against the window, head down, and arms around her face.   They leave blue smears on the glass.  Suddenly, you want her to _look up._   Just one more time.  You want to see her face just _one more time._   Her beautiful face, more beautiful than you imagined when you talked to her through the chat logs, but also so much harsher – you just want to see her alive.  To have something good to remember.  Before she’s gone.

You wait one agonizingly long moment with your finger on the switch and with baited breath and she won’t look up.  You wait another, and another, until Rose murmurs, “John,” and you flinch.

You close your eyes and let yourself shake.  You can’t do this.  But you’re leaning forward, using your entire body to press down on the button, but Dave grabs your wrist, quick as lightning.  He says, “At least look at her.  She deserves that much.”

It seems that your eyelids are made of lead.  They take so much effort to lift, but once they are open Dave lets go of you.  The button clicks.

She falls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later, much later, you hold her tight, and rock her, and tell her that you love her.  She stays silent, which is odd, she always has a quip for you, but that’s all right.  It’s nice to do the talking.  You shift her more upright, so that you can tuck her head under your chin.  Your beautiful fairy girl is cold, much too cold, but you can warm her.  You’re warm enough for both of you.


End file.
